Pandora Syndrome
by april.wahlin
Summary: All Pandora Blackheart wants is to play video games and eat junk food. Unfortunately, her new life as a vampire has put a severe kink in that plan as her afterlife is proving troublesome and full of surprises far more severe than a mere change in diet. This tale of a quirky modern vampire spans the supernatural gap by combining all manner of fictional beasts with classic fables.
1. Chapter 1

Pandora Syndrome

Witten by: April Wahlin

Edited by: Mike Dolnick and Travis Noble

Chapter 1~Beginning of the End~

Being encased in about ten feet of solid cement and walled into the basement of a local coffee shop was finally starting to get to me. My skin ached. Not because of the cement, but because it was morning. Okay, so I didn't make the best life choices, but I was still pretty new to this vampire stuff.

After the initial shock of being buried in cement finally wore off, I found myself in an uncomfortably reflective state. What else could I do? Every time I attempted to move my muscles clenched and burned with the effort. It was just easier to try and stay still.

My friends always told me I had the worst taste in men. I thought they were just making fun of my eating habits– okay, lame joke. Seriously though, even when I was human I was a horrible judge of character. At this point I was only hoping to hear the huge 'I told you so' from my Maker.

By the way, my name is Pandora Grey Blackheart. I know, with a name like that I'm not surprised I got turned into a vampire either. Being born in the sixties, my parents were literally hippies. My mother, Mary, was rebelling against her own name when she dubbed me Pandora. Mary is the most common female name in history; I looked it up.

If you think I got it bad, my brother's name is Prometheus Jackson Blackheart. No one was shocked when he started going by Jack. My friends call me Adora or D; I'll even respond to Dora on occasion, but no one calls me Pandora unless they want to piss me off. The only people that get away with it are my mother, because she gave birth to me, and my Maker (the one that turned me bloodsucker) because he refuses to call me anything else.

As the vampire books say (and yes I've read them all; there isn't exactly a "Vampirism for Dummies"), I was "created" in the '80s, the height of the slacker era. It was an easy time: Reagan was President, there were no wars to protest, no drafts, and there was a rapid influx in fashion and technology. My generation was the last to be raised by our parents, instead of colorful cartoon characters. Bowie and Billy Idol ruled the radio and 'MTV' was steadily growing in popularity. America had survived the hippy revolution and was just starting to wade its way past the horrific invasion of spandex, which held a death grip on the fashion industry. Though it has finally passed, it lives on to this day all across Middle America… like Elvis.

It was strange to watch technology change so drastically. I remember when only rich people had access to cell phones and the Internet. Now if you don't have Internet on your cell phone, you are left in a technological wasteland. Toddlers have cell phones these days. What is the world coming to?

I'm curvy for a twenty-first century girl. I would have fit in better with Betty Page's generation than the stick-thin super models of this day. I'm an average girl of medium height with black hair and eyes so dark brown they're nearly black. Booooring. I get hit on enough though; then again, I've seen guys hit on couches after a few drinks.

All in all, I'm not the best vampire. Clearly. Not that I'd given much thought to joining the rank of Bloodthirsty Night Stalkers. I still like the taste of food, though it does nothing for me. I hunt to eat and not for sport like many vamps. Above all, I abhor politics. You think human politicians are bad? They haven't had millennia to practice. Not to mention, I am a huge pop culture geek. This is weird for three reasons:

One: I am a girl.

Two: I am not ten.

Three: The geek factor pretty much ruins the whole Bloodthirsty Night Stalker image.

If my Maker hadn't been in the right place at the wrong time, I'm sure I would have been his last choice for a Tyro (apprentice, pupil, new vamp). I'm just not vampire material. Heck, I'm not even vampire bait. I'm not Mina Harker; I'm not innocent or sweet, and I am not particularly virtuous. I'm a modern woman who lost her virtuousness at sixteen along with her drinking, cursing, and smoking virtuousness. I am, however, honest (if not brash), loyal to a fault, and brave in a somewhat Lucille Ball kind of way.

I don't have a job– well, not a real job anyway. I'm confined to working nights, for obvious reasons, but feel more contented now. Mostly because I don't have to worry about what I'll do with my life, since I have eternity to do something with myself. I work to get by, hang out with my friends, and play video games, which I'm much better at now that I have extra special abilities.

Man, the cement was really getting on my nerves. You don't realize how good it feels to move your neck around until you no longer have the luxury. I hoped I wouldn't need the little vampire's room any time soon. Then again, since I could practically feel the cement leeching moisture from my body, I wasn't in any danger of that. Of course, needing the bathroom was the least of my problems.

How had I got myself into this mess? I never killed anyone; well, not permanently. I never hurt anyone that didn't deserve it. I didn't manipulate people. I only took blood from willing donors– and dumb guys who thought they were getting a hickey instead of donating blood.

My captor was smart. I tried to use my connection with my brother to call for help but my handy vamp powers weren't so handy on a supernatural high ground. The land itself disrupted any magical current that came near it. Go figure the coffee chain Ahab's would be the supernatural 'it' place. Just further demonstrates how much I knew about this world. In fact, not long after I discovered that little fact, I was told that their rival Coffee & Tea was run by Hunters (agents of a supernatural enforcement called The Order.) Next they'd tell me Bigfoot runs Tacoma's Best.

I imagined the ways I'd kill those who had done this to me… If I got out of there.

Chapter 2 ~My Human Life~

I have to admit, my human life was not so different from my vampire life. I would love to say that I had a fabulous life before I turned vamp and that it just got better once I joined the supernatural ranks, but I can't.

Whoever said vampires are rich and have hordes of ghoulish servants never met Adora Blackheart. I'm not well-to-do, I'm not influential; I wasn't even an overachiever in high school. I wasn't voted most likely to succeed and the only thing I ever won was a beautiful baby contest. That was before I could even form memories.

In my human life I lived in San Diego, which is beautiful, but when you grow up there, it's just commonplace. The beaches never excited me, I don't like to surf. I barely held down a job as a cashier at a supply store, which provided me with nothing but an irrational hatred for incentive plans and extended warranties.

Yes, I was living in the fast lane with my super exciting sales job. On top of that, I was a full time JC student with no direction. I still lived with my mother and had a stoner boyfriend who was little more than a masturbatory aid. The only break from this monotony was the occasional junior college keg party or movie night with my friend, Rosetta.

I hardly remember the breakdown I had just before I turned twenty-one, but I'm glad it happened, even though it inadvertently led to my early death.

When I was human I had a bit of a temper; okay, maybe more than a bit. So when one of my coworkers "accidentally" grabbed my butt while looking for staples, I felt justified in stapling his forehead. I might as well have stapled my resignation to his head. My manager wanted to talk, but I'd rather staple my tongue to the counter than sit through the "is something wrong?" speech. Yes, there is something wrong; my life is going nowhere and I'm supposed to be in my prime! I don't know what I wanted, but nine to five, then school, and perhaps a beer after work was not it.

My brother Jack on the other hand had just graduated from a university. He had always been good at school and I hated him for it. He could sleep through Calculus and get an A, whereas I studied my ass off and couldn't get better than a C… in Beginning Algebra.

Unfortunately, Jack couldn't get a scholarship since he was both white and male, thus putting him out of the running. Apparently scholarship programs assume that those in this category either have money or are trailer trash and not planning to matriculate.

So, since Mom wasn't rich, Jack worked the graveyard shift at Lenny's to put himself through school. Somehow, he made it all happen and became a production assistant on movies in Los Angeles. He's a lackey now, but if I know Jack, in a few years he'll be running the place. Needless to say, when Jack asked his mentally deficient sister to come help with rent on a duplex, I jumped at the chance.

Unfortunately, before I could pack my Star Wars figurines and pose a Jerry-Maguire-like "I quit" scene at the store, there came a death in the family.

Smoking a pack a day and demolishing a gallon of Vodka every couple weeks, my Grandmother Millie—who lived with my mother and I—died of heart failure. Yes, after years of smoking and drinking, it was her heart that failed; not the lungs, not the liver.

Take that, Surgeon General.

My grandmother had been an ornery old woman, but I loved her and couldn't believe that I was too busy having a breakdown to realize that Granny had been rushed to the hospital.

She was dead by the time I got there.

Somehow her death put the misery in my life into focus, further ingraining my need to get out of Dodge. It could be worse. I could be homeless, or have some disfiguring illness, but I felt like my life was spiraling into a void. My only hope was to escape San Diego. When the funeral was over I would move to Los Angeles, even though I had no clue what I would do there.

I should probably mention that my grandmother never liked me. I think it had something to do with me being born with dark eyes and hair, unlike my Germanic blue-eyed, blond-haired family. "Devil Girl, get out of the refrigerator!" she'd yell when I came home from school wanting a snack. It was her cute pet name for me. The way she shouted it across the house, she sounded more like some creole lady from the bayou, instead of a scrawny white woman from Minnesota. I'd call her an old witch, we'd argue, and then it would be over. The name never really hurt my feelings; she'd been calling me that since infancy, but Grandma's nickname for Jack was Angel Boy.

You could tell who her favorite was.

My brother and I helped Mom pack Grandma's things, separating keepsakes from Salvation Army donations. When we went through her photos I received a big surprise. Sure, she had pictures of Jack and me, photos of the whole family, but I was convinced she only had me in pictures because it would be rude to cut me out. However, as I looked through her album, I found pictures of just me, old high school photos and baby pictures. I sat stunned as I looked at them. I guess she liked me after all.

That was when I cried. I had been kind of numb to her death. At that moment, I wished all the more that I could have said goodbye. However, I would never have a chance; it was too late.

Chapter 3 ~Funeral~

A few weeks later, we held the funeral at the local crematorium. Despite my groaning, it was open casket. Why go through the trouble of all that makeup and embalming fluid if they were just going to burn her afterwards? It didn't make any sense to me, but my mother insisted that it was Grandma Millie's last wish. Guess the old witch wanted to traumatize us all before going up like a traditional broom rider, in a blaze of glory.

I had a strange feeling as I walked into the funeral home. I have never liked funerals. It all started with my grandpa's. I had only been six, and forgot much of it, but I remembered the feeling. It was the same feeling I had now, the feeling I got when passing graveyards and museums, like I could sense the death on them. I couldn't explain it. I wasn't scared, didn't want to run away. If anything, it felt more like it was calling out to me.

The air in the parlor reeked of formaldehyde and lilac, like when you tried to aerosol over the smell of burnt food. It smelled better, but you could still tell there was something bad around.

"You okay, sweetie?" Mom asked, concerned as I stood in the doorway staring at my grandmother's coffin.

"Yeah, I'll be alright."

I wanted to walk toward the box. It was weird. I always thought open casket funerals were such a horrible idea, but somehow, I was longing to see my grandmother one last time. If not for Jack, who escorted my mother and me to our seats, I might never have moved.

People were gathering around a blown up picture of my grandmother from the early BC's. She looked a bit like my mom then. I didn't see the point of putting up a picture that looked nothing like Grandma, but I guess I wouldn't want the last picture everyone saw of me to be old and wrinkly either.

The crowd was small, just my aunts, cousins, and a few family friends. My grandma hadn't had too many buddies near the end, probably because she spent most of her time complaining and watching Wheel of Fortune.

My best friend, Rosetta, came by to pay her respects, but had to leave before the actual viewing. She'd always been a bit squeamish when it came to dead things. We'd met in elementary school and had been instant friends but, unlike me, she hated horror movies. Rosetta could hardly watch The Fog, and that's just a bunch of movie smoke. Just the idea of death freaked her out. When she left, I was envious. I had to stay and talk to people I hadn't seen since last Christmas.

We greeted the relations and accepted condolences on the loss of my 90-year-old grandma. I have to say, they looked more grim when they saw her alive than they did now. No one had expected her to live as long as she did. I was pretty sure she had stayed alive out of pure stubbornness.

When everyone was finally seated, Mom nodded to the preacher. Silence filled the room as he began Grandma's eulogy.

I couldn't wait for this to be over.

The priest had a nice generic speech prepared. I'd never met the man before. My family wasn't religious. We were Lutheran, but not even Sunday Lutheran. I could pretty much count how many times I had stepped inside a church on one hand. Mostly weddings. I suppose we had a priest to lead the ceremony because it felt like the right thing to do, though the man made my grandmother sound like an angel struck down in her prime. She had been a private woman. Grandma didn't like to talk about her past or family matters. And certainly not religion. So with that in mind, he was doing an excellent job.

Once the speech was over, it was time for the personal accounts. They were nice and rehearsed; nothing about grandma's vices or her temper. It made me feel like I didn't know her at all; I didn't like it. I wished people would be honest and tell stories about her telling off the mailman for losing her magazines or kicking a pit bull square in the jaw when it tried to bite her. The woman was fearless. By these pleasant accounts she sounded like an old woman who knitted in a rocking chair and handed out hard candies to children. I never got a single piece of candy from her, not even on Easter.

Looking over at her preserved face, it seemed like she was scowling. I couldn't blame her. I would be upset too if a bunch of people were misrepresenting me on my deathbed.

I was relieved when the eulogy was over, but now we had to line up and speak our last to the tarted up corpse of my grandmother. I felt nervous for some reason. I think it was because I didn't know what to say. Not like she would hear me anyway, but I still wanted it to be something good. Something true. Something I meant.

After most of the family had gone through, it was my turn. I stood at the side of the coffin looking down at her. It was my grandmother, but she didn't quite look like herself. It was the makeup. She never wore that much makeup, and the lipstick was far too dark. The skin color was off as well; it looked like they had fake-baked my grandmother. I was glad that she couldn't see herself like this, and yet I wished she would wake up. Just for a moment.

I'd seen the people before me touch her crossed hands as they said their respects. I figured this was part of the tradition, so against my better judgment, I placed my hand on hers. It felt so wrong; there was no life in her. It felt like touching a fleshy skeleton, but I forced myself to leave my hand there. I looked back to her pancake makeup face and tried to imagine that she was just taking a nap.

Suddenly I knew what to say. "I am not a devil girl," I whispered to her with a smile.

That felt right. It wasn't particularly respectful, but it felt nice to tell her off for once.

Then, just as I started to pull my hand away, she twitched. Slowly her face began to move and I froze. There was no way I could be seeing this. I rubbed my eyes and looked down again. She looked up at me and her lips ripped free of the glue that had been keeping them together.

"Yes you are," she told me, but it wasn't malicious. "I love you anyway."

There was a kind look in her eyes. The look I only ever got on my birthday or when I brought home an A on a test (which wasn't often). I had no idea what she was talking about, but for some reason her voice was soothing.

"I miss you," I told her.

Why wasn't I running away or screaming? For some reason I was just happy to be talking to her, grateful that I could say goodbye.

"I miss you too, Devil Girl," she replied with a smile, which did strange, awful things to the glue on her lips. "It's alright to let me go. Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

I nodded, feeling terrified and relieved at the same time.

"Adora? What have you done?"

I turned to see Jack looking over my shoulder, his eyes round with horror.

I didn't know what to say. I looked back down at my grandmother who smiled and closed her eyes. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. Her body was spinning away from me. Soon the room, Jack, and the ceiling joined her, like paint swirling together down the drain.

I just barely felt my head hit the thin carpeting of the crematorium.

I woke up on a pew to discover Jack and mom staring down at me. I looked around in shock. I hadn't had a blackout in a long time. Just then, I remembered what had happened. Jack stared down at me bewildered. I could see it in his face. He had seen what I had seen.

"Thank goodness you're alright," my mother sighed.

I looked toward the casket. It was closed.

"Grandma called me Devil Girl, but she said she loved me anyway," I muttered in a daze.

Mom and Jack exchanged worried glances. It was obvious they didn't believe me. I wouldn't have believed me either.

Then I noticed another person there, a man with dark eyes. I stared, confused until I finally recognized him. It was my mother's on-again, off-again boyfriend, Rick. When did he get here?

"Jack," I pleaded. "You saw Grandma didn't you? I know you did."

"You passed out," he replied, but I knew he had seen. What a liar.

I didn't try to argue; I just got up and headed back to the coffin.

"No, honey, don't!" mom called as I pulled up the casket lid.

I looked down to see my grandmother, dead as before. I had imagined it. I couldn't believe that I could create something so real. Luckily, most of the family was already heading to the house for appetizers. This was a little embarrassing. Was this a side effect of my blackout? I shook my head and started to turn when I noticed the flecks of glue around her parted lips.

Suddenly Rick was behind me. "Are you all right, Pandora?"

"It's Adora," I corrected mindlessly. I did it so often the words were automatic now.

I turned and just stared up at him. The man never smiled, but the edges of his mouth were turned up, as though he were trying to be comforting. It didn't work.

I turned and looked back at the room. Mom was worried and Jack looked like he would be sick. I had no idea what I looked like; I can't imagine it was good, though.

Just then, I felt Rick's hand on my shoulder. I jumped. The man was never closer than a couple feet to me, let alone within arm's reach. Somehow, despite my own reasoning, I was soothed. He didn't seem afraid of me like Jack, who didn't talk to me the whole way home.

Mom asked me if I was all right at least a hundred times before we reached our street. Once there, she helped me inside. Jack came in silently behind us. Our dog Sarge greeted me happily with a round of slobbery kisses. Sarge was a big husky with one blue eye and one white. He always knew when I was upset. Today was no different.

Sarge was a stray I had found in the street when I was six. I had been walking home from school with Jack when we saw him lying on the sidewalk. It took all sorts of begging for me to keep him. Mom said he smelled putrid, but eventually she came around. However, grandma didn't, so she decided to name him after me, only ever calling him Devil Dog.

After much convincing, my mother got me to lie down.

I had weird dreams that night. Dark dreams about graveyards, Grandma and Grandpa, Sarge, and a strange shadowy man. The man was more imposing than the graveyard itself. For some strange reason, I didn't feel afraid of him, just curious.

The next day Mom tried to talk to me about what happened. I just brushed her off. I wasn't even sure that what happened had actually happened. How could it? Dead people didn't wake up just to say good-bye to their granddaughters. It sounded like some crazy dream. Maybe I had eaten something bad or taken too much aspirin. Jack was acting like it hadn't happened, so why couldn't I?

I planned to be in L.A. with Jack the next morning. But Mom insisted I stay for another week. She wanted to keep an eye on me. I wanted to get out of town as soon as possible, but staying home for a while sounded nice, too; especially since it would give me more time to say good-bye to Mom. I had never lived anywhere else. It was hard to leave. However, now that my grandma was gone, the place seemed foreign somehow.

I felt bad for leaving Mom alone. First Jack, then Grandma, and now me; I felt like I should keep her company. At the same time, I knew I would go mad if I didn't get out of there, and soon. Or even worse, I might chicken out and stay. L.A. was an exciting, yet scary concept. I couldn't wait to celebrate my 21st birthday there but I knew I would miss Mom and Sarge. I would only be a two-hour drive away yet it still felt like I was moving across the country.

The day Jack came to pick me up ended in an argument. Mom told me that I shouldn't be going off to L.A. in my condition. Then Jack, much to my relief, argued in my defense. I guess he had gotten over the funeral incident and was back to his normal happy-go-lucky self.

After about an hour of rehashing the pros and cons of moving, Mom conceded. She reasoned that she still had Sarge, but I could tell it was hard for her to see me go. Mom had nearly thrown herself in front of Jack's car when he had moved.

Once I pried Mom and Sarge off of me, I got into Jack's car and waved good-bye to San Diego. We hit traffic all the way up to L.A. Two hour drive my ass. I should have taken that as an omen of bad things to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Pandora Syndrome

Witten by: April Wahlin

Edited by: Mike Dolnick and Travis Noble

~My 21st Birthday~

R.I.P. Pandora Grey Blackheart 1961-1982?

So it was Los Angeles where I went to "die."

It was August 13, 1982 when I was "born to darkness" as the vamp wannabes like to call it. My twenty-first birthday would be the last time I saw day without a reasonable amount of strife. Sadly funny that I should "die" on the day I was born. I chuckle in remembrance every time I pass a Forever 21. Honestly, I should have known something would go down when my birthday fell on Friday the 13th.

I always thought it was kind of fitting that L.A. was called the city of lost angels. If you lived there for more than a year, you'd see day in and day out big fish from little pond Wisconsin come out to strike it rich as an actor/writer/producer/whatever. Lost angels indeed; lost angels working as background on movies or catering jobs trying to pay the exorbitant rent on a cramped no-bedroom apartment. All in hopes of being "discovered" and rising to super stardom where they, too, can have the Playboy trophy wife and a mansion in Beverly Hills. Or, like me, they just didn't know what else to do with their young lives and decided that getting paid minimum wage to sit around in a nun costume was better than flipping burgers.

Since I was new to the Los Angeles area, I hadn't had time to make any friends with which to party. All I had was my brother Jack and Rosetta, who was darling enough to drive up from San Diego for my twenty-first celebration. She didn't like that I had moved away, but she hadn't tried to stop me either. I think she could see that I needed to get away, at least for a while. Then again, you don't have to be a mind reader for that. Anyone that heard about my stapling a fellow employee knew I wasn't right in the head.

So, like the lame little sister that I was, my brother had to take my friend and I club-hopping.

Jack hadn't mentioned the funeral since I moved in. I tried to broach the subject once and he went silent on me. Guess it was just one of those things we wouldn't talk about. Like the time I found my favorite Barbie in his room tied nude to a coat hanger surrounded by a bunch of GI Joes.

Anyway, Jack invited a couple of his friends along to make my party less sad. So, that night I made the responsible adult decision to get trashed.

Rosetta helped me dress up. She had always been more fashionable than I was, so she put together my birthday getup. Since it was the 80's, I probably don't have to say just how awful I looked. I'll always remember that horrible outfit— sparkly silver tights under a black miniskirt and a tight purple shirt that hung off the shoulder, revealing a bright red bra. Honestly, between the teased hair, fuchsia makeup, and purple-heeled boots, I couldn't decide if I'd be mistaken for Madonna or Boy George.

Now that I thought about it, I couldn't have looked more like vampire bait if I had tried.

We hadn't even made it out of the house before I had the first of my three sheets to the wind. Rosetta had brought up a bottle from her grandfather's tequila collection and the thing was half gone by the time we got the party on the road.

This was before DUI enforcements were a real threat, so we didn't think twice about taking the car down to the Sunset Strip.

Once we made it to the clubs, I felt less awkward about how I was dressed. After all, we were partying in L.A., in the summer of 1982. It looked like a George Michael video and I was far from the most flamboyantly dressed.

The first club we visited could have been taken straight out of the movie Valley Girl. In San Diego, you didn't see many guys wearing makeup. When you went out on the Sunset Strip, you couldn't throw a rock without hitting one. I was stunned. At that moment I decided not to dance with any guy wearing more makeup than I was. Then again, maybe I was too picky.

I had a list. You know; that list of things a guy must have in order to keep your attention. My list started with the following:

1) Must not be wearing Makeup: I know it's pretty shallow for number one, but I couldn't stomach the idea of kissing a guy wearing lipstick.

2) Must have strong features: I was never a fan of the baby face. Adorable though they may be. I didn't want to be resisting the urge to pinch their cheeks all night.

3) Good conversational skills: This should be number one, but it takes time to conversationally feel someone out. The other two rules are superficial and can be told right off the bat. This was an important one. Too many times a guy matched One and Two, then after the initial flirtations were over, I found myself so bored I wanted to gnaw my arm off to get away.

There are lots of rules; many, many more in fact that varied from person to person and consisted of the usual. You know, good breath, well-groomed, good kisser. I prefer light eyes to brown eyes, etc. Any number of these could be a deal breaker depending on the person and level of inebriation.

Rosetta called me a snob. She thought all the pretty boys looked cute. I'm sorry; I wanted my men to look like men and not watered-down drag queens. Of course, having said that, I seemed to have cursed myself. The only guys that approached me looked better in eyeliner than I did.

After about a half hour of sitting at the bar fending off she-males, my brother came to rescue me.

"Having a good time?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's alright," I sighed, not wanting to be a drag—Ha.

"Well I'm not," he laughed. "Let's go. There are about ten bars down this strip and it wouldn't be a pub crawl if we didn't at least try to hit them all."

I smiled. Clearly he could see I wasn't having the best time.

My brother and I had always been close; not that we didn't have our arguments, but for the most part we were happy siblings. Though I was spectacularly jealous of him; I got our no-good father's dark hair and eyes, whereas Jack got our mother's baby blues and sandy blond hair. I don't think I ever had a friend that didn't have some kind of crush on him. Even Rosetta liked him, though she pretended not to. He got more than his fair share of mindless bimbos, but I had yet to see him with a serious girlfriend.

So with that, we began our whirlwind pub tour. We hit the Cat Club, The Rainbow Room, The Roxy, and a few others I couldn't remember, since the more bars we hit the less I recalled. Yes, we were on a pub crawl of epic proportions.

Unfortunately none of us knew just how epic it would turn out to be.

The last club we hit I remembered reasonably well; the infamous Viper Room, hot spot of the drunk and famous. Then it was called The Central, but I'm just going to keep calling it the Viper since I didn't remember much of that night anyway.

I had the vain hope that I might see some celebs, but honestly, with the amount of alcohol in my system, David Hasslehoff could have been standing next to me and I wouldn't have noticed.

When I arrived I was disappointed. Famous bands played there, it was a Hollywood monument, but all I saw was a simple black exterior that wrapped around a corner liquor store with a poor white marquee to advertise it.

"This is it?" I slurred.

My brother laughed, knowing how drunk I was, but to this day I still have the same opinion. It's a small club. The stage was tiny. I couldn't figure how all the great bands, especially hair bands, could fit on the stage let alone head-bang. Everyone would be packed like sardines if there were more than fifty people. God forbid anyone get overly enthusiastic and start a mosh-pit. People would be trampled to death.

The Viper Room was popular, though. When I walked in, it was packed. I scanned the small venue, located the bar, and made my way through the crowd. The bar top was lit with red neon and had a padded ledge, which I happily leaned on despite its stickiness. Impatiently, I waited for the bartender so I could order a drink I didn't need.

I waved, trying to get his attention. However, try as I might, he ignored me.

I looked around for Jack, but he was chatting up some sleazy blonde in the corner. I guess bad taste in partners runs in the family. I searched for Rosetta, but she was nowhere to be found. She hadn't been feeling well, so I decided she was probably in the bathroom. I would have to go check on her– right after I got my drink. Some friend I was, but I couldn't help it. I was drunk and determined, a disastrous combination.

I glanced back at the bar, still no bartender in range. So I waited, hoping that my drunkenness might give me courage to flirt with or, God forbid, make out with some hot guy before the night's end. I was never good at hitting on guys, or dealing with guys that hit on me for that matter. My former boyfriend had only become so after I tried a certain herbal cigarette for the first time. That hadn't turned out too well, but this was my first time getting royally drunk, so maybe I would get lucky.

Considering the atmosphere, and that I was trying to order my fifth Long Island Iced Tea, I was willing to throw my list to the wind. I was ready to dance, ready to play some tonsil hockey; ready to crawl on the bar top and flash the bartender for a drink.

"May I be of some assistance?" A man's cool voice suddenly breezed by my ear.

A shiver ran down my spine and I nearly fell over. It sounded as though his lips were to my ear, but when I turned, he was merely lounging against the bar next to me. I blinked a couple times, trying to catch up.

"I did not mean to frighten you," he smiled.

His voice was startling and cut through the noise of the bar with little effort. I was shocked that he had slid up to me without my realizing. The guy was no slouch in the height department. I looked up into his stormy blue eyes and blushed. He was startlingly handsome and, at first glance, hit every bullet on my list. Maybe I was just drunk. Maybe he could sense my desperation. At that point I didn't care.

He was perfect.

"You didn't scare me," I replied stubbornly.

I tried to look cool, but I was too wobbly to pull that off. Perhaps the drinks were finally starting to catch up. For the last few clubs I had been feeling like Wonder Woman. My ridiculously high-heeled boots weren't hurting me. When I tripped, bashing my knee on the sidewalk, I got right up and continued on my merry way. As the throbbing started in my knee, I realized that tomorrow would be a hard day.

I had no idea how hard.

"Are you alright?" he asked, glancing at my favored knee.

"Yeah, just tripped earlier," I replied. "No big deal. I'm more annoyed with the bartenders. It's my birthday and all I want is a drink."

"Happy birthday," he smiled.

Oh, he was polite, too; bonus. I thanked him and explained how the bartenders had banished me to a realm of drinkless misery.

I took this opportunity to study him. If I had written to Santa wishing for a man, I could only hope my present would turn out half as well. He stood six feet. His hair was short and black as coal. The contours of his face were wonderful featuring a strong square jaw, high cheekbones, and a nose that made arrowheads jealous. No teased hair, no makeup, no unfortunate moles. He was older than me, but couldn't be much past twenty-seven, which was perfect. I'd always liked guys a little older than myself.

I silently thanked Rosetta for making me up for the evening, even if I did feel funny about the contrast in our clothing. The man obviously had more taste than I could ever hope to have. He wore an expensive-looking high collar medium length gray jacket, which was double breasted like a patrol coat. I couldn't help imagining what was underneath it, but quickly stopped myself. After all, I didn't want to get my hopes up; I just met this guy.

He smirked down at me and I blushed all over again.

"Allow me," the man offered with a sly smile and turned to the bar.

He snapped his fingers and within seconds one of the lady bartenders was there.

"What can I getcha?" she asked in a chipper tone.

I stared in amazement. The guy must be a regular. I'd never seen such quick service.

"The lady would like a Long Island."

Good guess, since I hadn't told him what I wanted. If this man went up any higher in my esteem I would have to get a ladder to reach him.

The bartender eyed me skeptically. I could tell she thought this guy was way too good for me. "And for yourself?" she asked him with a flirtatious smile.

I had the urge to reach across the bar and slap her, but I thought that might make me look bad.

"Remy Martin, on the rocks," he smiled and she slithered away to make the drinks.

Seconds later she placed the drinks in front of us, winked at him, and took off on her broom.

Bitch.

I smiled, trying to give my new crush my best flirtatious eye. Since I had never used that look before, I hoped it would work.

"Thanks for the help. How much do I owe you?"

He smiled at me and laughed. I quickly realized that was the wrong thing to ask. Let's just say I wasn't used to having guys buy me drinks. Well, guys that weren't related to me anyway.

I tried to think of something intelligent to say, but I was the mental equivalent of the Mojave Desert. Then suddenly I remembered Rosetta. I hadn't seen her in a while. I needed to make sure she was okay.

Apparently I had pretty bad ADD, but this was before it was a diagnosable condition. Back then, it was simply called "airheaded".

"Care to join me at my table?" he asked with an easy smile.

"I- should check on my friend first." Why did I say that?!

Everything in me was screaming to go with this guy. However, some small part was afraid to. I always got nervous when things went too well, like I was waiting for something to go wrong.

"If you insist," he replied, disappointed, and directed my attention to a table in the back of the bar. "I will be there when you are ready."

I felt like such a hick listening to him talk. He pronounced everything so clearly, whereas I, even when not slurring drunkenly, had the diction of a truck driver.

"That would be great! I'll be right back, I promise," I excused myself.

As I turned, a cool hand took mine. I flushed and looked back at him.

"Before you go, may I have the pleasure of your name?"

"You may," I replied, hoping to sound classy, yet playful. "It's Adora."

"Adora," he repeated thoughtfully. "What a unique name. Is it short for something?"

I never liked giving my real name, but what could I say? He was gorgeous.

"Pandora," I replied.

"Pandora? As in the box?"

"Yes," I groaned, having heard it a hundred times. Somehow, when he said it, I didn't want to grind his head into the ground. "All of the world's misery right here in one cute little package. Care to take a peek?" Oh dear God in Heaven and all the Saints, why did I just say that? Now I sounded slutty. That's it! I decided then and there I would never get drunk again.

Funny enough, I was able to keep that vow.

Luckily, he smiled at my brazenness and moved closer. I hadn't even seen him take a step. I could feel the blood pumping in my veins in excitement.

"I might take you up on that," he replied smoothly.

I felt as though I would melt. "May I have your name?" I asked, trying not to lose all ability to form sentences.

"I am Romulus," he replied and lifted my hand to his lips, kissing it softly. "It is a pleasure."

I envied my hand as I bit my lip, trying to contain my easily prompted lust. With a name like that, I could only guess he was European, though I didn't detect an accent. For a moment, I wondered why a guy like this would be talking to someone like me, but quickly banished the thought. It was my birthday and so far he was the highlight of my night. Why ruin it with logic?

"I'll be back- got to go- find my friend," I stammered and backed toward the lady's room.

I wanted to forget about my friend and jump into his arms, then and there. What was wrong with me? I never acted like this. The guy was having a weird effect on me. Just then, I noticed that a third of my Long Island had disappeared. When had that happened?

I looked over my shoulder to sneak a glance at the handsome man, but he was nowhere to be found. I prayed he would be at the corner table like he promised. I had every intention of going back to see him.

As I headed toward the ladies room my mind was polluted with thoughts of Rom- Rome…what was his name again? Geez, why was I so bad remembering names? Roman- Remy? He had ordered a drink, a Remy Martin. I had heard of it before, though I couldn't tell you what kind of drink it was. Maybe I could get away with calling him Remy. He might think it was cute, or he might be offended– Oh, man.

I quickly made my way to the restroom. Rosetta would kill me if I didn't make sure she was all right. It dawned on me then that checking on her because I was afraid of her wrath wasn't the healthiest relationship, but she was the dictator and I was the poor peasant begging for her mercy. That's just how our friendship was.

I walked through the swarm of women touching up their makeup and worked my way to the stalls, which was a short trip. There were only two. Small ones.

"Rosetta," I called, but no answer came.

I looked under the doors for her shoes. Nope. One of the stalls was vacant so I figured I'd use the facilities while I was there. Wouldn't want it to be a total waste of the trip.

I didn't think it possible, but the stall was actually smaller than it appeared on the outside and, of course, the lock was broken. I went through the irritating bathroom routine of wiping off the toilet seat, unbuckling my belt, carefully pulling down my panty hose to avoid ripping them, moving the underwear and finally trying to balance onto the seat without falling over, all while keeping the door from creeping open.

Men have it so easy.

Once I went through the unbelievably more difficult process of putting myself back together, I emerged from the bathroom, ready to re-enter the party.

Unfortunately, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Now I knew why girls carried extra makeup for touch ups. The blush on one side of my cheek had faded away, the liner under my right eye was going rogue, and let's not get started with my hair.

I looked around for tools to repair my face. No paper towels left. Normally I wouldn't have cared, but I had a guy waiting for me and didn't want to look like a freak when I saw him again.

In my drunken desperation, I ripped off the dry part of a used paper towel. Even without being a germaphobe that was pretty gross. Quickly I rubbed off the blush on one side to match the other, dabbed my eyeliner back into place, and ran my fingers through my hair hoping against hope to give it more volume. I was unsuccessful, but at least it looked neater.

I glanced to the mirror, told myself it could be worse, and headed back into the club.

I scanned the patrons of the bar, still no sign of Rosetta. Well, at least I tried.

Feeling as though I had fulfilled my best friend responsibility, however unsuccessful, I decided to join my new friend at the back of the bar.

As I walked through the room full of drunken partygoers, I spotted one of my brother's friends against the wall– Think his name was Ben. But Jack was nowhere in sight. Perhaps Ben had seen him or Rosetta.

"Hey, Ben, have you seen my brother?" I asked him.

The guy looked at me like I was an idiot. "It's Brian," he scowled indignantly.

Note to self, if you're not sure of someone's name just call them "Buddy" or "Guy" or something equally friendly yet vague.

"Sorry, I'm a little drunk."

"I can see that," he replied tartly.

Bitch.

"Have you seen my brother?"

"Yeah," Guy sighed, clearly annoyed by my presence. "He left with that hot blonde about a half hour ago, said for you and your friend to get a ride with Jim."

I stood with my jaw agape. I felt as though I might cry. My brother had left me to hook up with some skeezey bimbo? I couldn't believe it. I mean, he shouldn't have to be my keeper, but it was my F-ing birthday!

I stood barely able to hold back tears. Guy rolled his eyes apathetically. Apparently my emotional state was interfering with his wall-flowering good time. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself, and looked out to the crowd.

"Which one is Jim?"

"The one with the eye makeup."

He might as well have said the one with the nose, or the one with the eyes. I hated Guy, the evil friend of my no good brother who ditched me on my birthday.

Okay, I didn't mean that, but still.

"Thanks." Yeah, thanks for nothing, Guy.

No longer having a good time, I looked for "the one with the eye makeup,"' but there were just too many. I racked my brain trying to remember what Jim looked like, but it was no use. He'd met up with us at this bar and I'd only said hello before he disappeared into the crowd with the Devil– I mean Jack.

My head began to spin as I realized that I might have been left behind. This was the time before cell phones, so getting separated from your party in a strange city was a really, really bad thing. Then there was Rosetta; I couldn't find her either. I felt panicky as I looked around, hoping to see someone familiar, but there was no one. I was faced with an endless sea of big hair, ridiculous earrings, and garish makeup.

Aimlessly, I wandered the club. What time was it? I looked at the stupid Swatch Rosetta had given me, tried to read it, and quickly realized just how drunk I was. I'd always had a hard time reading watches, something about dyslexia or one of those "conditions" they were diagnosing all the kids with in the 90's. Obviously I was super glad when most of the watches went digital. In this instance it had to be the alcohol messing with me, because I was pretty sure dyslexia wouldn't make the watch numbers do the polka.

It must have been late because the more I wandered, the more the crowd thinned. It felt hopeless as I started my third perimeter search. Finally it dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, they were waiting for me outside. I hoped and prayed that someone would be there as I descended the stairs, which was no easy feat after five Long Islands– or was it six?

Somehow, I managed to make it down the stairs without killing myself and made my way out the door, which weighed a ton. Had the door always been this heavy? I couldn't remember.

I tottered onto the sidewalk. My heels made it increasingly more difficult to navigate. The cool night air hit my face and I took a deep breath, like it was my first breath in hours. It felt good.

I bumped my way through a crowd of smokers. Using a spindly-looking sidewalk tree to balance myself, I searched the torrent of people exiting the bar; still no one. Of course, it would have been easier to search if the pavement would hold still.

Stupid pavement.

I worked my way toward the corner by holding onto news boxes and sign posts. I was nearly there when one of them suddenly moved. I tumbled forward, barely managing to catch myself before hitting the ground. As I got to my feet I realized that the street lamp I had been reaching for was in fact a very unhappy anorexic blonde.

"Watch it, you drunk cooze," the girl yelled at me.

Ignoring the irate not-so-super model, I resumed my search. Who used the word cooze? I mean really.

Bitch.

After searching the front of the club, I stumbled toward the back. Okay, it wouldn't be so bad if I got left behind, right? I could always get a taxi. A cab to North Hollywood wouldn't be so expensive.

Oh, if I only knew.

I patted my nonexistent pockets and remembered that Jack had all my cash, and my ID, and my phone book. To my dismay, I had not memorized the phone number to the house yet. I remembered Rosetta's number, but who knows where she was. Probably not anywhere near her phone in San Diego. I would have to sleep in the alley. Then again there was always Mom… On second thought, I'd rather sleep in the alley.

I wandered the parking lot of the club in dismay. I searched the cars, hoping to see Jack's when I remembered that I was in this mess because he had ditched me to get laid. Thanks, Bro.

Once I realized my efforts were useless, I gave up, leaned against the wall, and wondered how the situation could get any worse.

Of course, it did.

I found out the hard way that heels don't like when you lean back on them with all your weight. I heard the snap, but it was too late; I was already on the ground rubbing my twisted ankle. Angrily I ripped what was left of my heel off and chucked it across the parking lot.

In a fury I began removing anything I could throw, determined to show the night that I was pissed off. I pulled off my earrings one at a time and threw them as hard as I could, followed quickly by my hair clips and false eyelashes. I flung my bracelets one at a time, which shone in the streetlights like little neon UFOs. It hadn't helped the situation, but it made me feel a little better. Happy birthday to me, I thought to myself, and that's the moment I started to cry.

I sat back against the wall that smelled like urine and broken dreams, and bawled. Just then I thought about how pissed Rosetta would be when I told her I had chucked her favorite earrings across the Viper Room parking lot. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The thought of mascara running down my face only made me cry harder. At this moment I was glad I was a girl, because girls are allowed to cry at times like these.

"You never came to see me," sighed a voice next to me and I nearly fell over in shock.

I turned to discover Remy Martin looming over me with a thin smile.

"Where did you come from?" I blurted.

Probably not the most intelligent reaction, I admit.

"I came from the bar, remember?" He was teasing me; it would have been cute were I not starting the second emotional breakdown of my young life.

"Yeah, I know–" I began to say, but it wasn't worth explaining. "Never mind," I sobbed and buried my face in my hands.

"Why are you crying?"

I flashed back to all those Peter Pan movies I watched as a kid: 'Boy, why are you crying?' Wendy would ask Peter. If I had a thimble I'd have offered it to him.

"I'm alright," I wept.

"I did not ask if you were alright," Remy replied. "I can see that you are not. I asked why you are crying."

"Oh, right," I sighed dismally. "Well, I got ditched by my brother. I have no idea how to get home. I don't have money or an ID. I'm screwed!" I yelled, talking to myself more than him. "My makeup's a mess," I continued rambling against my better judgment. "My hair is flat. I broke my heel. Lost my friend's earrings–" I looked up at him. He just stared at me blankly. "And now you think I'm a hag."

Suddenly Remy was crouched next to me and I nearly yelped in surprise. I didn't like this super drunk thing. He kept catching me off guard.

"I think no such thing," he replied. If I had the energy, I would have blushed. "I could give you a lift," he offered with a smirk.

The way he said it made me wary. I wasn't in the habit of accepting rides from strangers, even handsome ones. Some dark pit inside me was worried he would steal me away to his house and do things to me. However, the non-pit place was hoping he might steal me away to his house and do things to me.

I was conflicted. Then again, I didn't have much of a choice. I either got a ride with him or I spent the night in the alley where anyone could do things to me. At least Remy was good looking. Ah, drunken logic.

"Let us start by getting you off the ground," he told me and slipped his arm around my waist.

I barely had time to gasp before he had me on my feet. "Wow, you're strong," I stammered and tried to take a step, momentarily forgetting about my lack of heel. Thankfully, Remy held me up.

"My hero," I sighed.

"What makes you think I am a hero?" he asked, pressing his body against mine, pinning me to the brick wall. His lips were suddenly inches from mine and my heart pounded as he looked into my eyes. "Do you accept me?"

Okay, that was a bit out there. I thought a moment, foolishly pondering the current situation. No use.

"Yes?" I answered unsure, but as soon as the word left my mouth, strong lips replaced it.

I couldn't believe it. I was kissing a guy I had just met in the back alley of a Hollywood club. He tasted of brandy and spring water. This was so unlike me. I felt dazed as his lips moved against mine. They were cool and firm and amazing. My knees went weak, but he kept me in place. I didn't have much experience, but I could tell that Remy was a master at kissing. His hand brushed my cheek and traveled lightly down my neck when he abruptly stopped and turned.

I looked up, wondering what the interruption was.

Behind Remy, I saw two men walking across the lot toward us. The metal of their guns glinted in the dim streetlight.

"Evening, gentlemen," he greeted them as though they were pointing friggin daisies at him. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you stupid or something?" the man laughed. "We want your money!"

"And if I am not inclined to surrender it?" he asked, sounding like some old-fashioned dueler. I half expected him to pull a flintlock pistol from his coat.

"Then we shoot you, take your money, and your slut."

"Great," I slurred. "This is just the perfect cap to my night." Har har.

"SHUT UP!" the man yelled, pointing his gun at me.

I don't know exactly what happened, but something in me snapped. Suddenly I felt the way I had during my little stapler incident.

"NO, you shut up!" I yelled at him. Great come back, I know. I was just loaded with brilliant ideas that evening. "I've had a crappy birthday and you jackasses aren't making it better! So why don't you go play somewhere else!"

I am Wonder Woman.

The robbers stared at me, stunned. "Besides, I don't have anything to rob," I continued unsteadily. "Do you see any pockets on this outfit?"

Remy was unnaturally cool about the whole thing. Actually, he seemed to be enjoying my belligerent outburst.

The robbers stood confused by my blatant disregard for their guns. "You better get control of your woman!" one of the men shouted.

I'd had enough. Quickly, I hobble away. I figured if they hadn't shot us at this point, they wouldn't.

I was wrong.

The dumber of the two robbers tracked me with his gun ready to fire. There was a quick shot and I was thrown back into the wall of the club. My chest ached in pain as I spotted Remy across the way, standing over the now disable gunmen. He'd moved so fast I could hardly track his movement. Then again, I was having a hard time keeping track of the sidewalk.

As Remy turned back to me, I sighed in relief– but it sounded more like a gurgle than a sigh. Geez, that was attractive. I tried to take a breath, but couldn't. I glanced back at Remy. There was a wild, stunned look in his eyes. He said something. I couldn't understand it. I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn't move. All of a sudden, I was cold and my vision went blurry.

I realized then that I had been shot.

I am not Wonder Woman.


End file.
